The Legend of the Scarecrow
by AllieSaysRoar
Summary: Western culture is renown for its many captivating fables; the most popular being that haunting tale about the lone scarecrow that can be spotted lingering on the outskirts of Oz... One-shot.


It is really no wonder that the people of the Vinkus have a taste for lore. All throughout the Thousand Year Grasslands, along the tides of the Vinkus River, and within the canyon of Kumbricia's Pass, folktales are known to whisper their names. Such as the story of Saint Aelphaba stripping away at her clothing and disappearing behind a waterfall's aquatic film and into a surreptitious cave (although a tale originating in the east, the mention of "cave" spurred on recognition of the Great Kells, making the western inhabitants feel as though this is a story to be regarded as their own). This is accompanied by various tales of witches lurking within the mountain ranges, trapped within caves. There they sit, biding their time, patiently awaiting the moment when fate chooses to have them reemerge from their stone encasing and allow them to shed their wickedness on Oz once more.

Tales such as these circulated all over Oz's western region, and became apart of the Winkie culture- the legends that are told by the hearth of the fire place when the children acquiesce their elders into sharing them, rather than being forced up to their sleeping chambers. The most popular amongst these stories, undoubtedly, would have to be that of the lone scarecrow who tends to linger, without purpose, on the very edge of the outer Vinkus. It widely appeals to the masses for its original spooky mood or perhaps because more often than not, an alarm tends to go off in the older listeners' heads. _How peculiar. Why does that ring a bell? _

Or, it could be none of the above; rather, it could be the fact that this tale actually has a sense of legitimacy to it.

Only slightly watered down by time, this fresh tale is still fairly accurate in it's recounting. It goes like this:

Some wanderer from Ev, far too poor to afford proper transportation, had finally-miraculously!- finished his trek across the unholy sea of sand that stretches around the land of Oz. Fatigued, the wanderer felt that he would never last the night; the outskirt desert temperature was dropping dangerously low, in tandem with his supplies. He was as good as dead. However, his heart heavy with hope and dread, his hollow, sunken eyes spotted something on the horizon. The glowing light from the waning sun threw itself upon a small cabin that couldn't be more than a mile ahead. The wanderer, rediscovering strength, made a mad dash for the little bungalow, resolving to beg for the resident's mercy had they decided to cast him away. Disheveled, he came upon the old, wooden door and eagerly rapped upon it. Under the force, the door creaked on its hinges and slid open ever so slightly. He stared at it, taken aback, before entering.

It was a single-roomed home, complete with a queen bed on one side of the room, a shelf filled with books standing erect against one wall, a food storage compartment, a quaint breakfast nook, and a mangled, old broom standing alone in a dim corner. The whole set-up was seemingly normal, aside from the home being hopelessly empty.

Not bothering to question this in his desperation, the wanderer looted the food storage compartment, finding a sufficient supply of nourishment. The previous owner most likely just abandoned the cabin recently, he reasoned. After his first substantial meal in days, he curled up, reveling in the foreign comfort of a bed and slept soundly in the strange, little cabin.

Upon awaking the next morning, he readied himself to take his leave, replenished and rejuvenated. Stepping outside, he noticed something that had escaped his attention the previous night. A scarecrow stood taut and alert, only about 50 feet from the entrance of the house. A chill ran down the wanderer's spine; a feeling of mild discomfort overcoming him under the scarecrow's deadpan stare. After a moment of stillness, the wanderer was forced to remind himself that the creature was inanimate; like a child reassuring itself that there were no monsters lurking under its bed. Feeling bold, the wanderer strode over to where the straw man was perched, inwardly laughing at himself for being startled by such a goofy-looking anomaly. The lone scarecrow seemed, upon closer inspection, to have this miserable countenance permanently sewn onto his face, which was lined by tiny squares of bright blue patchwork. His body donned an official general's uniform and was stuffed with straw so accordingly it would appear that he would have the build of an army official to accompany his attire. The make-up of the creature was ridiculously meticulous, and the wanderer found it laughable enough to close the gap between he and the scarecrow.

"Good morning, general," he greeted, mockingly. Of course, he received no response.

Five feet away, the wanderer, upon careless step in the tall grass, tripped and landed face-first before the creature. Looking up, he could have sworn that he saw a smile flicker over the woven face.

Swiveling his head around, the wanderer spotted a rock jutting out of the ground- obviously the reason for his fall. Cursing under his breath, he lifted himself to his feet. Swinging his leg behind him, he readied himself to vent his anger out on the innocent object when a voice from behind made his blood run cold.

"_Don't you touch that!"_ the scarecrow barked.

Needless to say, the poor man had never run faster in his life.

Upon making it to the Emerald City a few days later, he took no pause in telling his tale to anyone inclined to hear. Interests piqued, a cohort of young men decided to take a look at this alleged "living scarecrow" for themselves. They reached the spot the wanderer had told them about- between the Thursk Desert and the Thousand Year Grasslands; a beeline from Kiamo Ko- and did, in fact, come across the scarecrow. It was perched five feet adjacent to a small rock, which, after looking more closely, the boys discovered to be a tombstone. Clumsily etched into the rock was a single, generic phrase.

"HERE LIES ELPHABA THROPP".


End file.
